


Junkhead

by xephyr



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xephyr/pseuds/xephyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnus finds himself back in a rut he thought he had gotten out of almost ten years ago. (Somewhat of a prequel to my other fic titled Dirt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Junkhead

 It had only been a few months.

  
He should have surprised that it was so easy to fall back into it and to go through the motions, but he wasn't. It was kind of like riding a bike, in that way. You never really forgot how it felt.  
He hadn't tried to contact anyone in the band for a while, now. There really wasn't any need to. What would he even say? 'Sorry for going insane and stabbing you in the back, Nathan'? He wasn't sorry. Nathan had been pushing his buttons for too fucking long and he'd had enough of it. Yeah, sure, it sucked having nowhere to stay, but he wasn't expecting the band to help him out.

  
Skwisgaar pretended to help. He didn't actually do anything, but he sure did lie about it enough. Magnus had almost believed him at one point, but Skwisgaar never came through with anything. Eventually, Magnus had just stopped calling him.  
He stood up, feeling the blood rush to his head. There were people around him, sprawled on the couches and the floor of the dirty apartment, but he was only vaguely aware of them. Most of them were passed out or too fucked up to even know what was going on, so they didn't actually notice him standing up to begin with. Right now, in his haze, Magnus couldn't have said what any of their names were. John was one of them, maybe. He didn't fucking know. All he knew was that they were good people to shoot up with, and he did so regularly.

  
Not too long after, he found himself in the bathroom. He had obviously walked there, but he didn't really remember it.

  
When he groggily looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror, he realized how much he hated himself.

  
His eyes stayed locked onto his reflection's, idly running a shaky finger over his cheekbones. They were so much more prominent than they were before. He could feel them pushing against his skin, almost threatening to burst through. He'd lost so much fucking weight. His pants barely stayed on his waist, even with his belt.

  
A sound escaped from his lips. A laugh, a whimper, he didn't know. How had he let himself fall back like this? It had only been a few months since he was kicked out. It was easy enough to find a dealer. When he was still in Dethklok more often than not they played in shady dive bars, and every other person was either a dealer or a user. It was too easy.

  
He had been clean for almost ten years. He should have kept that streak going, but when you get kicked out of your apartment and lose all your friends in the same night, things got difficult. And when things got difficult, you need a little pick me up. And when you were a fucking addict at one point in your life, it was easy to fall back into the habit of needing a pick me up every night. Every day. Sometimes even twice a day depending on how he felt.

  
He wanted to blame Skwisgaar. He really did. But Skwisgaar was an idiot and probably would never have guessed that it would have gotten this bad. He couldn't blame him for anything besides not sticking up for him and just being an asshole in general.  
But even if he did hate Skwisgaar, where would that get him? Skwisgaar was still in the band, they were still getting gigs, and they still had an apartment. It wasn't a nice apartment by any means, but it was better than Magnus' car. You started to long for dirty smelly couches after you've been sleeping in your back seat for a couple months.

  
Another laugh escaped him. Something. Maybe he was crying, he didn't fucking know. His face felt wet but that could just be the heroin making him sweat. Either way, it didn't really matter.  
All at once, he felt it hit him and it was too much. He collapsed back and stumbled against the wall, hitting it solidly and he slid down. He needed to get out of this. He needed to--

  
And then he didn't feel anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short thing.


End file.
